


Arbitrary Promises and Nightmares

by Isbjorn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, It's super duper short, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD John, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Promises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-02 23:45:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10230737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isbjorn/pseuds/Isbjorn
Summary: John has been having a tough time since Sherlock left. He is having an even tougher time now that Sherlock is back.///Plot? There is no plot. I just want John and Sherlock to live happily ever after together.





	

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own!
> 
> (Updated to fix some errors on 3/12/2017)

John still wakes up gasping for breath, hands clutching the sheets twisted around him as if they could somehow ground him. As if the thin cotton, that he has been sleeping under for years, could somehow bring him back to the present, away from the nightmares that plague him in his sleep.  


Sherlock had come back. The insufferable prat was sleeping in the bedroom downstairs. He was alive. Yet John’s brain seemed to deny this so thoroughly, the doubt so deeply ingrained, that every morning since his return the doctor woke to the fresh surprise of his best friend alive and well; wandering around the flat being generally obnoxious and brilliant.  


Sherlock, of course, acted as if nothing had happened; save for the few brief moments in which he seemed to acknowledge that something was still not okay between John and himself. Even these brief acknowledgements were in their own way flippant.  


The detective barely glanced at John from his sprawled out position in the sitting room, yet John could feel the man deducing him silently; figuring out how the other man had slept without the small talk, the inane chatter of more common folk. The daily silent assessment was nearly unbearable, draining whatever energy the nightmares had spared the night before. It brought into clear focus the awkward silence in 221B that hadn’t been there before. John placed the kettle on the stove and fell heavily into one of the dining room chairs. As the water boiled, John’s eyes unfocused and brought him back into his dreams.  


Lost in the forced recap of last night’s dreams, he failed to hear Sherlock approach him. In his mind’s eye those feet were gliding away from him. Those fierce blue eyes staring at John as the man he loved, that he had killed for, that he would gladly die for, walked off the building’s edge. The feel of a million arms tearing his fingers away from Sherlock’s wrist, wrestling him away from the man sprawled across the pavement, burned his skin. The sharp metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils until he felt he was breathing it into his body. John jumped, eyes wide, as a slender hand fell onto his shoulder.  


“John.” The doctor’s body slumped forward, his eyes closing in resignation. Sherlock repeated his name in that low baritone as if it were a silent plea. But for what? Surely the man didn’t see a need for forgiveness. The brilliantly stupid detective never truly understood when he was being a totally unreasonable prat and John had no energy left for this bickering. Looking back, he could pinpoint the exact moment his patience snapped.  


It was as if John had been transported to another timeline. He felt as if he were watching from the sidelines, frozen, as his body stood sharply, knocking over the chair, spinning around to grasp at Sherlock’s biceps. His fingers gripped the man’s arms with bruising force as his eyes met the detective’s. Sherlock’s eyes had widened in surprise, his mouth slack. Then John’s arms were tightening around Sherlock’s body, his face pressing firmly against the man’s chest until he found it hard to breathe. Sherlock was wrapping his own arms tightly around the doctor’s body. He had taken up the repetition of John’s name once more, the plea turning into more of a prayer. In this alternate universe John felt tears burning behind his eyes. John could count on one hand the number of times he had let those tears form. This time, he put up no resistance, letting them form in the corners of his eyes and track across what skin they could reach before being absorbed into Sherlock’s shirt.  


“Why didn’t you tell me?” John’s fists tightened around twin handfuls of Sherlock’s shirt. His voice cracked and strained around the few syllables which were so thoroughly twisted and muffled by the other man’s shirt John doubted he would be heard. The doctor’s knees trembled and, as if Sherlock had developed telepathy in his absence, the detective’s own knees began to fold until they were both kneeling on the floor. Sherlock’s knees moved to frame John’s and he found himself nestled in the other man’s body. He was surrounded by the rich, dark scent of Sherlock and the warmth of his skin. The beat of Sherlock’s heart thumped distantly against the side of John’s face. A thin hand rubbed circles into his back while another carded through his short hair.  


“I wanted to, but Moriarty’s network would have known.” Sherlock’s grip on John tightened just enough to be felt. “Mycroft and I had to make it believable so that Moriarty would let you live. I did it for you, John. I’m not going to apologize for protecting you.” Distress coated the man’s words and John realized with some inactive part of his brain that Sherlock was shaking slightly. He took a deep breath as if steeling himself and then whispered. “I am sorry for the way in which I had to do it. I’m sorry that it took so long to come back to you. But I would do it again if it meant keeping you safe.” Each syllable was like silk, tentatively attempting to smooth over the rough, jagged edges that made up John’s battered heart.  


John pressed his face even harder into Sherlock’s shoulder and choked on something that could have been a sob or a curse. His white-knuckled grip on Sherlock’s shirt was painful and after a few more moments, when all the tears had exhausted themselves into the detective’s shirt, John pulled reluctantly away from his shoulder. That intensely blue gaze was locked onto John’s and all he could do was sit there and let the other man cradle him as he felt his heart shattering once more.  


The nightmares that had woken him that morning. and every morning since Sherlock had strode into the door and crashed onto the couch, falling asleep instantly, flashed behind his eyes as Sherlock continued to stroke through his hair. Pale hands slipping from his own, black hair disappearing into a crowd, a note left on the door telling John not to look for him, all of Sherlock’s things evaporated into thin air, Sherlock lying dead on the pavement, Sherlock riddled with wounds, blood everywhere.  


John thought he would die when it finally, fully hit him that Sherlock was dead. He hadn’t eaten or slept for days. John had avoided contact with other people for the first full week, locking himself in Sherlock’s room and burying his head into the prat’s pillows and blankets. When John finally realized just how desperately and easily and naturally he had loved Sherlock Holmes it was like losing him all over again. It was all John could do to hold himself together as he had sobbed longer than he thought humanly possible. At times, it had felt as if every piece of him would just implode, choosing self-destruction as opposed to life without the crazed detective.  


“I’m going to kiss you, John.” It was barely a whisper and it took John a moment to fully comprehend what had been said before his eyes went wide and he began to jerk away. Sherlock let him scoot backwards, moving his hand from the doctor’s hair and placing it on his hip instead.  


“Don’t.” Came John’s strangled gasp. The hurt in Sherlock’s eyes flickered briefly before his mouth began to turn down as if readying for a childish strop. “Don’t kiss me, don’t start this if you are just going to leave me again.” John pulled himself together enough to form the words he wanted to say. “I can’t go through this again, this losing you. Do you have any idea how painful this entire ordeal was for me?” John cursed every crack in these last sentences and at their utterance Sherlock’s face smoothed out of its masked hurt.  


“Promises are arbitrary, John.” A wrinkle appeared between dark eyebrows and John felt something between a laugh and a sob well up in his throat. As he went to stand up, to figuratively run from this beautifully frustrating apparition, that smooth velvet reached out once more to rub against jagged rock. “But, I will do everything in my power, try every other way, so as not to leave your side ever again. Just,” Sherlock made another distressed sound, his eyes pleading and his grip on John tightening, “don’t leave, please.”  


John stared up into those familiar eyes silently. In the time it took to breathe shakily in and out his lips were crashing into Sherlock’s. One hand came up to grasp at the man’s shoulder while the other hand tangled in Sherlock’s dark curls. The detective gave a strangled, desperate noise and began to kiss back fervently. A hand twisted once more into the doctor’s hair while the other clutched at his back pressing him close and holding him in place. Sherlock leaned back until John was practically in his lap, leaning over him, the kiss unforgiving and messy. Their teeth catching at lips, clicking against each other, tongues laving against the other’s. Nails dug into skin. Stubble, yet to be shaved from the previous night, burned faintly as it rubbed against skin. The rough mess of a kiss was so full of emotion that it drew out sobs as well as moans and ended in the form of truce.  


That night John woke with a broken sob to find himself immediately wrapped in long pale arms. His cheek was pressed against a bare chest and the calm, even beats of Sherlock’s heart lulled him back to sleep. Just before he slipped back into unconsciousness he felt the warm press of lips against his forehead.  


As the upstairs bedroom cluttered with storage and dust, John’s nightmares were beaten back by the unrelenting presence of Sherlock wrapping himself tighter and tighter around John’s heart. The detective wiggled into all of the holes that had been stoppered by secrets and hidden feelings and he continued to erode every sharp and painful edge back down to something manageable.  


Which of course did not mean that Sherlock stopped being the insufferable child he always was. It did mean that John could start coming back to the long-suffering, reliable, and loyal doctor Sherlock had always admired. It meant taking cases from Scotland Yard once more, nearly killing Donovan when Sherlock laced his fingers with John’s easily at a particularly challenging crime scene. Sherlock had claimed it was to help him focus but John suspected it was mainly for Donovan’s reaction. Lestrade had merely rolled his eyes and huffed as if to say _finally, you idiots. __  
_

Slowly their lives began to piece together more and more. Mycroft began annoying them once again and John began to volunteer at various homeless shelters when they weren’t on a case. Sherlock and John would survive hand in hand, moving forward as a unit, even more thickly entwined than before, until the last case was closed and their last breaths had passed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this fic! It is the first fanfiction I have ever written in my life. For some reason I always told myself I would never be able to pull off Fanfiction and should just stay with my original works. But, after binge watching Sherlock BBC and then binge reading JohnLock Fics and falling into about a dozen JohnLock holes around social media I felt I wanted to contribute.  
> I adore comments, kudos, and constructive criticism.


End file.
